


Nights When You Have Time to Kill

by dustyfluorescent



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Barton Jumps Off Buildings, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Dog Cops, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:04:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2107437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyfluorescent/pseuds/dustyfluorescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because the brainwashing part of being brainwashed is technically over, it doesn’t mean the experience doesn’t leave a mark on you. Clint spends most of his time pretending he’s fine, but then there’s Bucky and Bucky understands and suddenly Clint doesn’t have to pretend anymore.</p><p>or</p><p>Five Things Clint and Bucky Did to Kill Time on Sleepless Nights, and One Thing They Did Just Because</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nights When You Have Time to Kill

Clint watches in astonished glee as Bucky pulls and releases an arrow and hits the bullseye - on one of Clint’s bows. That’s not something Clint has seen anyone do in years, and it’s really surprisingly hot. Good going, bionic arm.

“The draw on this thing is fucking ridiculous,” Bucky says. “How the fuck do you even use this, never mind with form as shitty as yours?”

“It’s handy,” Clint says with a shrug. “Guarantees I don’t usually get shot at with my own weapon, which is just the kind of cruel irony that a lot of guys I have a bone to pick with would appreciate. And fuck right off, there’s nothing wrong with my form.”

“Your form is horrible and you know it.”

“Eh,” Clint says, because of course he knows, “I don’t actually give a shit. It gets the job done, what do I care what I look like doing it?”

“Seriously. It’s disgusting. Where’d you learn to shoot, the circus?”

“Yep.”

Clint smirks, grabs the bow from Bucky, and fires an arrow that splits Bucky’s in two. He exaggerates his bad form just to be irritating, and Bucky’s groan is accompanied with a truly needless amount of dramatic eye rolling.

It’s three in the morning, and they’ve been at it for two hours. On nights like these, Clint desperately needs something to do. He’s used to coping with it alone, but range time in the middle of the night with Bucky is much better than range time in the middle of the night alone because Bucky doesn’t ask questions, Bucky doesn’t look at him with pity, Bucky doesn’t tiptoe around him if he lets it show that he might not be as fine as he lets on most of the time. 

Because Bucky fucking gets it, plain and simple. Because he knows how bad it is when you’re stripped of everything you are, and everything you know is used against you, against other people in every way that still wakes you up gasping and choking in the middle of the night, clawing off the cold, relentless grasp on your mind that’s no longer there. When everything about you is used so that there are people who are dead because of you, people you would never have let die if it were really down to you. 

And how do you tell yourself it wasn’t down to you, that it wasn’t your fault? How do you make yourself believe something like that when you can still remember it all, through a cold blue haze you still live through every move you made every time you fall asleep?

It’s not something Clint can just shrug off, the lives of all the people who died on the helicarrier that day. Coulson. He can’t shrug off something like that, and the guilt is a gaping hole in his chest. For all the shit he’s done in his life this takes the cake, and for some reason it’s worse. Because he wouldn’t have done any of it, not anymore, not him. Except that he did, and it took them a long time to trust him again, and he can’t even begin to trust himself yet.

The others, though, they want to think he’s fine. He wants them to think that too. He doesn’t want to cause any more shit than he already has, than he is prone to cause either way, whether he means it or not. He doesn’t want them to worry. They have their own baggage. So he spends ages dragging himself through endless days and nights when he doesn’t know how to breathe, how to be himself, how to find absolution.

And then there’s Bucky who knows exactly what it’s like. One night, when after four hours of tossing and turning and another short-lived brutal nightmare Clint stumbles to his go-to happy place, the shooting range Stark built just for him (and a little bit for Natasha), Bucky’s there with dark bruises under his eyes, shooting, manic, pale as a ghost (not a ghost, he’s not a ghost, he’s a _person_ ) just trying to get through the long dark lonely nightmare hours of the night. When Bucky turns to look at Clint slumped in the doorway, watching him, something inside Clint clicks back where it should be, and he lets himself not be okay in front of another person for the first time since forever.

They meet there many times after that. It slowly turns from accidental to kind of intended, kind of a plan, kind of a routine. It goes from quietly shooting side-by-side to nods and weary smiles to quips and teasing and genuine smiles, because it’s Bucky and Bucky can make Clint smile and mean it because Bucky is special. 

And there he is now, not even caring that Bucky knows he’s a carnie with bad form and a truckload of issues, and instead of getting all shuttered and weird and mean about the circus comment Clint just smirks and shoots well enough to prove it doesn’t actually matter.

“I’m starving,” he says. “You wanna order in Chinese?”

Bucky laughs. “At this hour?”

“Sure. It’s New York.”

“God, I love the twenty-first century,” Bucky says, and that’s okay, because they both know it’s not exactly true, but it’s less a lie now every time he says it, like he’s starting to find something resembling a home here, too. With Steve. With the rest of the team. With him, Clint finds himself hoping. Maybe more with him than some of the others. Maybe with him in a way that’s different from anyone else. 

Clint really wishes it isn’t just him that’s hoping. That’s been known to end in tears before. Not that it guarantees it doesn’t end in tears, with Clint’s track record anything else is a miracle, but he thinks with Bucky it might be different. Bucky isn’t trying to fix him. Bucky knows he’s broken, that he has issues and imperfections and cracks he’s not bothered to fix properly, and Bucky doesn’t think he can fix him. Bucky’s just there, and they can be there for each other. Bad people, with all their faults, all the blood in their past, and a brain you can’t make yourself trust. 

Clint pushes that train of thought away because false hope never led anywhere before, and even though he can’t make himself believe he’s completely making things up he definitely doesn’t have enough to be going on with to be making a move, so he says _let’s order Chinese_ and unstrings his bow and follows Bucky upstairs.

They eat chow mein chicken and watch Dog Cops, their thighs occasionally brushing almost by accident. It’s nice. They don’t talk about anything, serious or otherwise, but Clint knows that they could without it getting weird, and that’s strangely reassuring. He rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder. Nods off to Bucky’s steady breathing with the TV blasting on the background.

*

“I’ve got a playlist for us,” Clint announces, because he feels like they’ve reached that level in their relationship where they can make fun of each other, of this. “ _Clint and Bucky’s secret brainwash recovery playlist for nights when you have a lot of time to kill._ It’s surprisingly not angsty, actually. You can contribute, if you want.”

Bucky smiles and smacks Clint with a pillow. “So not tasteful. I approve.”

“I fucking hate tasteful.”

“I know. That’s like my favourite thing about you.”

“Really?”

“That, and your ass,” Bucky says with a grin, and throws another pillow at Clint because apparently this is the level of maturity they have reached now.

Clint doesn’t say anything to that because he’s not sure if it’s a joke or not, and he feels like if he opened his mouth it might betray how much he wants for it not to be a joke. Seriously, never before in his life has he wanted his ass to aesthetically please anyone half as much as he wants with Bucky. That boy could ogle him for all of eternity and paw at him inappropriately in public and Clint would probably just purr like a kitten and generally behave in a way that, he would like to point out, is completely uncharacteristic to him, thank you very much. It’s not that he’s besotted or anything, it’s just that he’s really fucking besotted and it’s seriously cramping his style, dammit.

So he doesn’t say anything until the silence stretches uncomfortably long and Bucky laughs to himself, eyes down, a short huff of laughter that sounds strangely sad, and Clint remembers that despite all the years he’s had to struggle through not even knowing who he is, Bucky is still so painfully young, dammit, and alone and in pain, and Clint doesn’t know how to help him like he’s helped Clint, and fuck if he doesn’t hate that.

“Hey,” he says and throws the pillow back at Bucky. “You wanna hear my inappropriate playlist or not?”

Bucky smiles shakily and Clint tries not to think about what that might mean. The playlist is, as promised, ridiculously inappropriate, but that’s okay because it makes them laugh and Clint feels a bit less shaky, and with Bucky there it’s so easy to fall asleep, it’s so much easier to breathe and just let things be the way they are.

*

It’s been a fucking nightmare week, and the only reason it’s even remotely over is because Clint, trying to keep up with his fucking super-human teammates, ignoring his limitations and trying a bit too hard, jumping off roofs as he does, has landed himself with a fractured clavicle, a dislocated shoulder, bruised ribs, and a sprained ankle. Because that’s how he rolls. That means he’s effectively dismissed from crime-fighting for the foreseeable future, because apparently a broken clavicle means he’s not allowed to use a bow for the next three months. A likely scenario. 

Currently, Clint should be in medical. He isn’t, obviously; he wouldn’t be Clint Barton if he hadn’t escaped medical the first chance he’d got. Instead, he’s hiding at the shooting range with Bucky, the two of them slumped against the wall and passing a bottle of vodka between them. It’s four in the morning and Clint’s painkillers are inadequate. He’s just had a dream where he talked to Coulson, stared him in the eye, shot him in the head. He hadn’t even tried to get back to sleep after that, and had instead limped off to the range to wistfully stare at his bow, only to find Bucky there, shooting round after round with blank eyes, shoulders tense. So there they are now, sharing the booze Clint had reserved for himself for pain-relief and wallowing-in-misery purposes. Clint doesn’t mind, not even a little, and that should be weird but honestly Clint isn’t even that surprised because that’s just the kind of effect Bucky seems to have on him. 

Even though Bucky’s technically been recruited, he's not cleared for active duty, not even close. When the Avengers are busy protecting the Earth, Bucky is left behind to deal with himself as best he knows how, and that’s not that well most of the time. Hence the shooting, and the vodka, and the way he melts against Clint like he’s been holding his breath at the bottom of the ocean, and suddenly he’s on dry land again, and everything is going to be fine. 

"I've been climbing walls here," Bucky says. "I have nothing to do except think. I don't much like doing that these days." 

“Yeah, no, I know.” Clint takes a swig of the vodka, relishes the burn, the way the alcohol is making the pain less pronounced, the world move a bit slower. “I get that, I think.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says with a gentle huff of laughter. “You do.”

They lean against each other, thoughts slowed down by alcohol, each other’s warm bodies the most concrete thing in the world, the only thing that’s really even real, and it’s the least complicated it’s ever been between them. What they have, whatever it is. It’s important, and it’s good, and maybe nothing else matters.

*

“So, do you have like a recipe in your head that you’re following, or something?” 

Bucky stares with wide eyes as Clint whirls around in the kitchen, seemingly doing four things at once even with just one arm properly functional, chopping vegetables at an unbelievable speed, flipping the frying pan with one easy movement of the wrist attached to his less injured arm. He stops to throw a grin Bucky’s way, full of unabashed mischief, just the way Bucky likes Clint’s grins best.

He’s so beautiful like this, the way he gets whenever he does something he really loves. Bucky had thought it was only when he was shooting a bow (and at this point in his life he’s steadfastly trying to ignore the way he thinks Clint’s eyes sometimes soften around the edges when they’re together, when he looks at Bucky, because he can’t think about that in case he’s wrong), but the way he looks in Stark’s weird, futuristic, completely over-the-top kitchen in his ratty joggers and a t-shirt that’s really way too threadbare for the general good, barefoot to top it off like that isn’t massively unfair… Well, he’s gorgeous. He looks happy, he looks at home, he looks comfortable in a way that Clint Barton rarely is. Just there, no reservations, no battle mechanisms on the ready, just unbelievably human, and Bucky loves it.

He bites his lip and makes himself stay where he’s standing, not reaching for Clint, not wrapping his arms around him like he wants. Clint says something, and Bucky remembers he’d asked a question. Before he got distracted. Again. 

“What?” he says, and tries not to sound as flustered as he feels. 

Clint laughs. 

“Earth to Bucky,” he says with a smile, and Bucky barely contains the impulse to either hit him with a dish towel or kiss him. “I said I’m pretty much making it up as I go. It’s more fun that way.”

“Wow, now I’m scared.”

“Fuck off. It’s gonna be amazing.”

Bucky can believe that. The smells that Clint is creating with one eye on whatever he’s doing are mouth-watering. Bucky feels frankly a bit left out that he’s never had the chance to try any of Clint’s cooking before. Jealous.

“So how come you’ve not cooked for me before?” he asks before he can consider if that’s an appropriate thing to say or if he’s once again crossing some invisible line between friendship and something else that he wants but isn’t sure can have.

“You jealous?”

“A bit,” Bucky says, and tries to make it a joke. It doesn’t really sound like one, so he distracts himself by stealing a piece of bread and stuffing it in his mouth.

“Don’t be. I don’t actually cook that often anymore. Not since New York.” Clint stops for a moment, blinks, shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it. ‘Sides, we always hang out in the middle of the night, it’s not exactly the best time to be cooking.”

This is what it’s like for them these days, talking about difficult things. Easy. Easier, anyway. You just let it out, not freaking out about whether the other can handle it. You say it, and you move on, and it’s not a big deal, just something that needs to be said sometimes. No pity, no awkward moments. It fucking sucks, whatever it is, and it’s still there, will be for a long time if not forever, but you want to move on. To the next thing, the next joke. With each other, they can do that. It’s easy, and it works, and Clint is done talking, and Bucky won’t ask why he stopped cooking after New York because that’s not the conversation Clint wants to have. 

“It’s literally three in the morning, Clint.”

“Eh, I figured it was already weird enough. And I’m pretty nocturnal these days, anyway, so.”

A beat of silence. “And I wanted to cook for you. No time like the present.”

Clint sounds fond. Clint sounds apprehensive. Painfully insecure, but like he doesn’t want to be wrong. Bucky hesitates for a second, and then decides he’s done with being so fucking careful all the time, and what they have isn’t something he can destroy like this, he hopes to God it’s not. He steps closer to Clint, grabs the front of his stupidly threadbare shirt with the fingers of his metal hand - because if Clint’s going to freak out about _that_ Bucky wants it to be sooner rather than later - and in the short moment when they look at each other and Clint absently sets the frying pan back on the stove, Bucky knows this isn’t going to be a mistake.

It’s not. It’s actually pretty wonderful and Bucky might consider slapping himself in the face for not doing this any sooner if it wasn’t for Clint’s steady hand on the back of his neck, holding him close, holding him fast, as they kiss like they should have done from the very start.

*

They’re in Clint’s bed, sweaty and naked and sated, and Clint’s just had what has to rank in the top five of the best sex he’s ever had. And he’s had a lot, so that’s pretty good for a first try. Bucky is lying on his side, watching Clint, his metal arm slung over Clint’s body, pulling him close, and Clint loves it, loves this, just being here, catching his breath, smiling uncharacteristically soppily at Bucky, burrowing closer. 

It’s five in the morning, and Clint can’t shake an irrational fear that Steve is going to stomp into his room any second now, demanding an explanation, thirsty for his blood. It’s stupid, of course, but he’s not sure how Steve might feel about this if he knew, and he’s not sure he wants to find out.

Some things he wants to know, though. Needs to, because otherwise he’ll never stop wondering.

“You and Steve,” he says quietly. “Were you ever…?”

He doesn’t say anything more, because the way Bucky’s face morphs into something far away and closed off makes him want to take it all back. He can’t, though, and he probably wouldn’t even if he could. 

“Nah, we never… We weren’t like that.”

“Huh,” Clint says against Bucky’s shoulder. For some reason, he doesn’t quite believe him.

Bucky hesitates for a second.

“Well,” he says finally, gnawing at his bottom lip, “he wasn’t, anyhow.”

Clint pulls Bucky closer, buries his face in his neck. Breathes him in. 

“Should I be jealous?” he asks. He can’t help himself.

“Nah,” Bucky says. “That’s all in the past. He’s my best friend, not… He’s my best friend.”

“I know.” 

The conversation dwindles away at that, and neither of them attempts to revive it. There might be a time for the rest of it in the future, but that time isn’t now. Talking about other people can wait. This is for them, and even if neither of them can sleep, if nightmares take over and turn things wrong again, at least they are in this together, skin to skin, soul to soul, as they are.

*

It’s a Tuesday afternoon when, after more than three months of excruciating idleness, vulturing doctors and boring-to-fuck but apparently “essential” physiotherapy, Clint is finally back at the range, holding his beloved bow, and trying not to look like he’s been reunited with a love long lost. Which he is, obviously, not that people need to know that. Clint Barton is a brutal hard-ass, thank you very much, and there isn’t a person on Earth who needs to think any different.

Bucky comes in and leans against the wall with a chuckle.

“You on your honeymoon?” 

Okay, so maybe Clint doesn’t care if Bucky knows he’s a sap. Still, Clint firmly believes “why yes, dear, I _am_ cheating on you with this glorified stick-and-string from the Paleolithic era” isn’t really a good look on him, so he turns to smirk at Bucky and flips him off. 

“Don’t be a dick,” Clint says. “We have history.”

“Yeah, you do. Well then, get to it. I’m just gonna stand here and watch.”

“So you can make fun of me if I’m not instantly perfect after over three months of not having been allowed to so much as touch a bow?” Clint very carefully does not say _not having touched a bow_ because even though he’s not been called out on it yet, Bucky definitely knows he’s been sneaking around, and that’s not a conversation Clint wants to have right now. “You’re set for disappointment, babe. I never miss.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “I’m really just here to blatantly ogle you. You don’t look half bad when you’re showing that demon bow of yours a good time, you know.”

“Oh,” Clint says, and smiles. “Okay. I guess I can live with that. Be my guest. Look all you want. On the condition that you put out later, of course.”

“I’ll suck you off right here if you don’t miss any this round,” Bucky drawls, and Clint nearly chokes on his tongue. He swallows and wills himself steady and calm and collected, because that really is a bet he wants to win. 

He strings his bow with extreme urgency and gets to work. It really is amazingly lucky that he never misses.


End file.
